Paddy Burt: Cley Mill near Holt in Norfolk

Paddy Burt stays at Cley Mill near Holt in Norfolk

12:01AM GMT 03 Mar 2001

FOLLOWING a hotel sign pointing prospective guests down a lane leading from the main Cromer road, we spot Cley Mill at once. It would be hard not to. This is a real windmill and its sails are all lit up. Magic.

Thank goodness we've made it with minutes to spare for 7.30 dinner. Going through the front door, we find ourselves in a large room in which a long table is laid for six. No one's around. Will we be phantom guests at a phantom feast? This might be a real windmill, but is it a Real Hotel?

Wandering up the other end, I spot through an open door the back view of a Real Man working at the stove. It's Jeremy Bolam, chef/manager. When I announce myself, he says: "You're late!" "We got stuck in traffic." "Didn't you get the directions I sent you?"

I confess these had got stuffed in a jacket pocket because we already knew the way. Then he asks which route we'd taken through the East End of London. Is this a trick question? If I tell him, it'll be the wrong way for sure. It is! Although realising I've interrupted him in the middle of his culinary endeavours, I do not warm to his general lack of welcome.

He whizzes us through a latch door and up a staircase that's not windmill-shaped as I'd hoped, though common sense tells me that the circular windmill rooms get booked first. Ours is spacious, beige and cold. The heating's not on.

Changing quickly, we hurry back to the dining room where the other guests are now seated and first courses are being served. As regular readers will know, I'm not usually keen on no-choice menus and communal dining arrangements, preferring to avoid questions such as: "And what do you do?" - but it would be a pity to miss a windmill hotel.

Our companions are a couple from the Midlands and a lady from Hampstead Garden Suburb accompanied by a silent husband. When a girl comes in through the door, makes straight for the kitchen, then straight back with plates of goat's cheese salad, the HGS lady demands to know her name. "I'm Jeremy's girlfriend." "You can't just be Jeremy's girlfriend," she replies in the manner of a South African policeman, "you must have a name." Admitting to Rosie, the girl scurries back to the kitchen.

The starters are accompanied by a basket of perfectly OK bread and dishes of butter. Next it's plates of steak and, although we had been asked how we like it, it's all in thin slices, mine being considerably more cooked than the "medium rare" I had asked for. The green beans are fine, but the best bit is the chunky chips.

I know a lot of people like plain food that hasn't been messed about, but what if you don't like steak? We finish with a rhubarb and orange creamy pudding. I rest my case.

Afterwards the HGS lady and her husband retire to bed. Amusing though she is, this is a relief. How would I cope with an interrogation beginning: "And what is your reeel name?" So now it's just us and the Midlands couple in the circular sitting room (what I came to Cley Mill for), furnished in homely style, with paintings, antiques, big sofas and a real fire. Drinks are help yourself. Our companions don't fancy tonic with their Scotch and there's no one to ask. They settle for water from the ice bucket and brandy glasses.

Back upstairs, our room is freezing. The only way to get warm is to climb into bed - fortunately it's comfortable and there's a decent TV. "Wish we were at home," mutters husband. Next morning we survey the scene. This room, we agree, could be lovely with a little more thought.

How nice if that empty space at one end had a couple of armchairs. How nice if there were some bath bubbles, to make the splendid free-standing bath a real treat. How nice if there were thick towels instead of mingy ones. How nice if there was more than one plastic hanger in the wardrobe.

There are 14 people for breakfast next morning, most of whom are going seal- and bird-watching - there's lots to do in this part of north Norfolk. But we are driving back to London.

At first sight, the bottom-line total on the bill strikes me as expensive - £127 eh? Then I realise this doesn't include my 25 per cent deposit. £127 plus £27 equals £154. Wow. All a bit confusing. The fact that the bill is presented on scruffy fax paper headed "2001 Booking Form" doesn't help.